I was getting my daily dose of the NY Times today when I saw this article by op-ed contributor Deborah Tannen dated 15 May 2006, and the following words struck a chord:

Once, after my [parents] visited me in Washington, I walked them to their car and waved as it receded down the street. When they got home, she called to tell me not that she'd enjoyed the visit, but that it broke her heart to see me standing alone as they drove away.

I, too, had had a fleeting sense of sadness as I stood alone waving goodbye. But that wasn't the only feeling I had, and it didn't last long. I loved my little house; I loved working in its quiet; I loved everything about the life I led as a professor. My mother's remark implied that marriage trumped all. It seemed to dismiss everything I'd accomplished, reframing my life as pitiable. By a strange alchemy, my small sadness became her big misery, which became my anguish and then my anger.

My parents consider a successful life for their daughter to be one where she is married, with children, a HDB flat (upgrading to private housing in a few years) and a car, with a regular nine-to-five job. What I consider to be a successful life is one where I am financially independent, with a job that stimulates and challenges me and which I enjoy, and yet leaving sufficient leisure time for me to pursue my varied and diverse interests. I love children, but nobody has yet convinced me that the joy of bringing up children outweighs the cost. If I meet Mr Right, good, if I don't, well, you can't miss what you never had.

My parents and I had numerous exchanges over this difference in out-look, which started shortly after I graduated from university, increasing in intensity as the years go by. And after each exchange, I go away with the feeling that Ms. Tannen has expressed so well - that at the end of the day, I will never really be successful in my parents' eyes because I am unmarried.

This of course begs the question - just how important is my parents' views to my own sense of self-worth? Important enough, I'll say - for it to have an impact on my happiness and sense of well-being. Even though I know that they are being unreasonable and illogical, I cannot help but feel guilty for not giving them what they want - it is as if I have failed them in some way. And this leads to anger - anger at myself to allow myself to be so badly affected by my parents' out-dated beliefs, and anger at my parents for failing to understand and impotence in knowing that they may never understand.

We are, in most of Singapore at least, long past the days when girls are considered worthless burdens who must be married off as soon as possible (Still, it exists - years ago, one of my father's business associates apparently asked my father when he allowed me to attend university since I am just a girl - I pity his daughter if he has any). But subtle distinctions remain - my parents had, on more than one occasion, wished aloud that I was a son, and not a daughter. They'll sleep better if I am a son, they said, as they will not worry as much when I went off on my madcap adventures. And I just do not understand, why this fixation on daughters getting married, what about the sons?

I am not against the institution of marriage - I have female friends who became visibly happier and contended after they found their Mr. Right, got married and settled down. I am really happy for them. All I am saying is that I should not be judged, especially by my parents, by this sole criterion. Life is tough - we all try to live a rich and fulfilling life, but there are always trade-offs. Many people I know trade off a potentially high-flying career for a rich family life. They are taking a risk - divorce is not uncommon anymore. I'm taking the risk that if I pursue my dreams, I may never have a family life outside of the one my parents had created for me, but if my dreams come true - can I be said to be any less successful than a person who has a happy marriage?

Last Sunday I went blading along the ECP by myself and it was a relaxing, peaceful experience. To just glide smoothly along the paths, with the waves breaking onto the shores, laughter of children, chatter of youths, conversation among family members - it sooths a troubled mind. Have you ever felt that sometimes there are just too many people, too many not-friends but more than acquaintances pressing around, squeezing the very breath out of your lungs, wringing the last bit of energy from your soul? Have you ever felt a need for solace the way a starving child needs food? I felt like that on Sunday - and it was time, I thought, for some time-out.

So I bladed along the paths of ECP, observing but detached. There was a couple that I over-took, the guy obviously trying to teach the gal how to blade, I saw youngsters swift and deadly on blades, winging their way through the slower bladers, cyclists and joggers with ease, lost in their own world of iPod music. I saw a two Japanese gals on their first attempt on a tandem bicycle, losing control and careering wildly into the path of bicycles going the other direction and a tumble was avoided only because the other cyclists were quick enough to stop. I heard the music from the pubs lining the beach, with the smoke from the BBQ pits scenting the air. It was fun. A very different definition of fun I know - but being alone I realise, is sometimes when the most fun occurs. I had fun in Bangkok, by myself. I had fun in India, by myself. I even had fun, sitting in the ACM Museum library, doing research - the reading table looks out, through colonial style window, to the Singapore river. Fun can be defined in many ways - not just excitement or thrills.

Have you ever felt a sense of loss as you grow older and realise that you and your parents now inhabit different worlds? That your world, with its values and views, does not make any sense to your parents? And realise that in order to maintain some semblance of peace in the family, you have to keep your innermost thoughts and deepest hopes to yourself? And as a result the gulf grows wider? I look at the young children at Marina Cove, happily pointing out whatever caught their attention, and their parents smiling indulgently, and I wonder, how and when did these disappear? We grow up, they grow old - and somehow, we grow apart. And by the time, if ever, this breach is bridged, there might be not much time left for us together. And if you get married and have kids, the cycle begins anew. However, how can we truly regret this growing gulf unless we regret what we have become? How can a child ever be considered a grown-up until she has left her parents' orbit and find her own place in the world? Questions to ponder...